


Circle Jerk I and II

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-30
Updated: 1999-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-20 14:51:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11337714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: The inevitable, unconscionable sequel to Circle Jerk. Spender watches the big boys at play.





	Circle Jerk I and II

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Circle Jerk by Spike

14 Dec 98  
Okay, first time up to bat for one of these challenges, but torch's masturbation challenge is just too tempting and, by golly, I've pretty much*done* the research...<g>  
Spike  
Disclaimer: I know these guys belong to someone else but if there were justice in the world they would be ours.  
Rating: NC-17 for perverse ideation, strange toys, longing and compulsive onanism. Deeply weird.  
Spoilers: yes, small ones for Tunguska, the RaTB and strangely, Drive.  
Summary: three men masturbate to the tune of some dirty and disturbing fantasies  
Author's note: spell checked but not beta-ed -- just want to get the sucker out and hope I don't end up regretting my impatience.  
Feedback: Yes, yes, yes... public or privately to <>

* * *

"Circle Jerk" by Spike  
11/98

828 Viva Tower, Crystal City, Va.  
11:19 p.m.

It's dark and Assistant Director Walter Skinner of the FBI stands naked at his balcony doors. His reflection in the glass is shadowed, eyeless; his cock is in his hand. The balcony is empty now, but in his mind the familiar movie runs: Alex Krycek -- cuffed and cowering; defiant but oh so shit scared. Pretty boy in black leather and olive drab, stinking of cordite and fear and kneeling up to offer him his mouth.... Skinner strokes and shudders. That image alone is enough to get him off most nights, but tonight he's tired; hard as a stone. This isn't about anything he understands and he is nowhere near release.

1247 9th Street   
Arlington, Va.  
11:21 p.m.

The parked Buick is dark, and cold enough that Alex can see his breath, but Alex isn't feeling cold: he's feeling heat: friction sparking between hand and cock, both trapped inside his jeans. Sitting behind the wheel, his eyes glued unblinking on the target's front stairs but the target is a nothing job and Alex doesn't care. He can't help it -- it comes over him like this sometimes, the memory of Mulder sprawled on the floor that night: a soul cut loose; elegance undone by desperation and the promise of hope and no time for Alex to take what his noble speech had won. No time even for the kiss he couldn't help but steal and then he had to go... 

Oh, fuck. Want. Want... He wants... Desperate grind of hips, the heel of his hand strips so rough it makes him gasp and his own harsh sounds run electric shivers through his cock and balls. He wants... And, Christ, he's tired of knowing what it's like to want. What he wants is *now*: that moment back -- no faceless rebels waiting for him on the other side but Mulder's eyes coming up wide and bright to meet his, and Mulder's too flat words: "You wanna fuck me, Krycek?" Yeah, Mulder. Yeah, I do. And stroke after matchhead stroke turns into rising lust that winds him up and up, higher and tighter than he ever wanted to be and will not let him go. 

#42, 2360 Hegal Place, Alexandria, VA   
11:25 p.m.

Mulder leans back, shudders, gasps at the touch of firm, warm rubber against the crack of his ass. Worse. This is getting worse. The preparations more elaborate; the fantasies darker and more perverse. Watching himself in the mirror: naked, gagged, his belt around his throat. A joke: Clyde Bruckman's dirty joke and the humiliation of the enormous dildo -- neon green gel, tapered head, wide alien eyes -- bought for its absurdity; it's kitsch and look at it now, braced in the crack of the dresser drawer and disappearing between the slicked cheeks of his ass with slow, inevitable slide. To the frantic flutter of his heart, buckle of his knees as it enters him, fills him. His body holding back, not exercised enough yet to open easily to the monstrous rod. Ridiculous thing, but -- *ahh ahh fuck...* muffled through the gag as he rocks his hips -- it's the only thing remotely close to what he imagines Skinner's cock to be. 

Skinner's cock -- just thinking the words conjures the bulk and heat; Canon cologne and the crisp white shirt. Skinner's muscled arms around him like a velvet vise. Mulder's self-cuffed hands drop to the head of his swollen, drooling prick. Barest thumb touch of the glans and he imagines: 

"Don't.." in Skinner's tense growl. Verisimilitude of real fear at the thought of Skinner angry, Skinner scared. Maybe Skinner, like himself, a prisoner of a man who watches from the shadows, wreathed in smoke. Mulder imagines a gun pointed at their heads, commands and threats but -- oh --sweet Jesus -- 

The overblown fantasy fades to black as the inner barrier gently gives way, the massive rubber head slides home. Mulder bucks wildly, fucking himself in earnest now. All he can think of are Walter's broad hands, strong arms, chocolate voice and the anchor of his cock in Mulder's ass and that's all there is to hold onto as ecstatic fire ignites at the base of his spine, travels toward the cock he still has yet to touch...

828 Viva Tower, Crystal City, Va.  
11:31 p.m.

And Skinner can hardly breathe for the terrifying tension building beneath his hand. His fantasy Krycek is no longer defiant but utterly subsumed --face bruised, mouth bloody around his swollen cock -- too bloody and there is the muffled thump of artillery in the background and it isn't really Krycek at all, is it? Cuffed to his balcony, begging to be fucked -- it's goddamned Mulder, on his knees, or bent over his desk, pants around his ankles and Skinner's belt is in his hand. 

But no...no...he doesn't want to hurt Mulder like that. Wants to cradle him, fuck him slowly, gently. Make it good. Plant kisses on that tender mouth... bloody mouth... No! But the image of that Mulder impaled on his cock; a Mulder beaten, bruised -- legs spread and tied to bamboo poles, raw cane-stripes down his back, head hung in shame and pain -- takes him another notch up the dial of need and Skinner sinks to his knees, callused hand a blur of motion, the slick crackle of flesh on slippery flesh almost loud enough to drown out the ghosts of mortar fire and distant screams but not the rising pitch of his own hoarse cries...

1247 9th Street   
Arlington, Va.  
11:32 p.m.

Car window's fogged -- Alex couldn't see the target if he tried but fuck, he's almost there. So close it tastes like copper in his mouth and -- left knee braced against the steering wheel, right foot flooring it between the pedals -- he has Mulder on his hands and knees; Mulder on his back. Yeah, that's it:

Punk up and look at me, Mulder. Look who's going to make you come: the *traitor*'s gonna make you come. The *coward*'s gonna make you come. Gonna make himself come too -- beat us both with one hand, Mulder, see how smart your mouth is screaming out my name.

But somehow the Mulder in his mind just doesn't have it right -- looks up at him sullen, distant, like he doesn't care. Ah, Mulder don't let me down like this. And Jesus all he needs is fire, a little fire. A man you can point your gun at who won't go soft. A man you can get on his hands and knees with steel and still need both eyes open because he's big and he's mean and blood doesn't bother him. Not yours, not his own -- and are we even *now* you fucking, cocksucking leatherneck bastard. Oh Jesus, yes --he'd be riding the fucking tiger then, wouldn't he? And one wrong move and he'd be on his ass, on his back, Walter Skinner's bitch cuffed to the balcony rail. Skinner's monster cock... And oh, oh fuck, that's going to do it -- never fucking fails

#42, 2360 Hegal Place, Alexandria, VA   
11:34 p.m.

And this is the way it's going to end, vision sparkle-fade to black, big green jelly Walter up his ass and the head of his penis exploding like some racist hick's head in the back seat of his car because, Jesus wept, it's come or die time and he doesn't think he's going to come...Too much to bear, this howling, aching pleasure in his ass, his balls -- too much like pain, going on forever, and sudden frustration he pulls himself off the fucking thing, spits out the gag. The belt is harder with cuffed hands chinking at his throat, but he manages to get the buckle off, feels the blood returning to his brain. The handcuff key...? Around somewhere. Fuck it, he thinks. Later.

He staggers to the living room; curls up on the cool sanctuary of the leather couch. Still horny as a dog but he's just too tired now, too overwrought. Why does he have to complicate it all like this? Couldn't he just spank the meat like a regular guy? Maybe someone with a softer touch. He snuggles his still-cuffed hands into his groin, takes gentle hold of his slippery, drooling prick. Light strokes along the rigid shaft -- a new and subtler torture -- but no, not torture, just gentleness. Soft hands, soft lips. Sudden, shivery memory of Alex Krycek's lips against his cheek makes him moan. Oh, Alex, Alex. This time, in fantasy, he turns his head towards. Brushes those lips with his own, opens to that hot wet velvet tongue. Nothing but tenderness in his touch and imaginary Krycek making love, is making heat. Not fire, but warm ripples like the aurora borealis, pulsing out from where imagined kisses fall and Mulder is rising again, but slowly. Sweetly. Both hands on his cock and Alex's name upon his lips...

828 Viva Tower, Crystal City, Va.  
11:36 p.m.

...and in a bloody haze of lust and pain, he comes.

1247 9th Street   
Arlington, Va.  
11:36 p.m.

...and on his knees to mastery again, he comes.

#42, 2360 Hegal Place, Alexandria, VA   
11:36 p.m.

...and in the arms of tenderness he comes

And night rolls on.

==END==

 

* * *

 

14 December 1998  
"Soggy Biscuit Boy"   
by Spike   
for Te, with extra gravy -- and no, this isn't the prezzie I promised.  
disclaimers: hmm -- I don't know if I even want 'em after this <g>  
rating: a sticky NC-17, Sp  
spoilers: vague for The Beginning, Drive, Triangle  
summary: eewww... the inevitable, unconscionable sequel to Circle Jerk. Spender watches the big boys at play.  
archive: yes to ArchiveX and Ferret Cage, anyone else please ask.  
Spellchecked & polished but NOT beta-ed. 

* * *

"Soggy Biscuit Boy" by Spike  
(with apologies to Barry Lowe and just about everybody else on the planet)

Hoover Building,  
Washington, DC  
12:02 am

Jeffrey Spender sat in front of the bank of monitors and stared with dreamy horror at the black and white, off-angle images running in jumpy double time before his eyes. Still sleep-fuddled, fuzzy in his suit and tie. The urgent call from his -- father -- had come just after eleven pm; dragging him from vaguely awful nightmares -- weirdly erotic dreams with aliens and Nazis and exploding heads and he had woken to find himself disturbingly hard and sweaty and shivering with self-disgust. 

"Go to Room G1-1013 and play the tapes you find there," the smarmy voice had insinuated on the phone, as he wiped the sheen of night sweat off his face. "There are things I want you to learn." and before he could ask how or why, the line disconnected. Already creeping doubt and he didn't want to go, but God knew he wasn't getting back to sleep tonight and anyway, he was in this as deep as he could go. So, out of bed, splashed water on his face and dressed. 

And now here he was, at the command of a man he could neither love nor trust and what was he watching...? The tapes had started harmlessly enough, three monitors -- familiar subjects: Mulder on one; Skinner on another and on the third some guy he didn't know, doing stakeout or surveillance on a dark, deserted street. He sipped at the scalding coffee in his cardboard cup, opened the package of Fig Newtons he'd got from the machine, leaned back in his chair. And nearly fallen on the floor as one by one the tapes turned into hard core porn. 

 Spender's mouth had fallen open; short, sharp shocks to his system as he watched Skinner's perfect, heavy-muscled form; naked to the world and pulling hard and fast on a tool like the proverbial baby's fist; and Mulder, Jesus, Mulder you sick sick fuck -- and if he weren't alone he would have blushed at the deep and twisting ache he felt at the sight of that slim form, chained and bedangled and impaling himself on -- on, whatever the hell that was sticking out of his dresser drawer. But it was the third guy, the stranger, who really got under his skin. The beauty of that face; the horror of that stiff prosthetic arm braced against the wheel -- the abandoned bucking of his hips. And Skinner on his knees; and Mulder on his couch; and pretty boy still behind the wheel, beating and panting and howling at the moon and Spender found the creepy arousal of his nightmares rising up in him again like fog -- hard bulge in his pants... Is this what he was supposed to learn? Or was there something else?

Breathing hard he stopped the tapes, rewound and played again, looking for other clues. Finding only that the ache in his groin intensified, pulled tighter. And watched to the end then back to the beginning and again, and then again.. And after a while, not even looking for anything else but, pulling his own pale length from his fly, he stroked with trembling hands as Skinner came and pretty boy came and Mulder came and came and came and finally, slow and cold and panting, Jeffrey Spender's turn to spend.

Strange, harsh orgasm and jerks and spurts and creamy stripes laid across the shiny conference table in the dark. Abruptly ashamed, disgusted he slapped the monitors off, wiped himself on a napkin, tucked himself away. Smearing the napkin over the table, he moved his cup to find come dripping down the cardboard side; a blob like icing on the half-eaten cookie just beyond.

And weird frisson of disgust at the strange compulsion that drew his hand --creepy rightness to top a creepy night; like somehow obligation must be met -- he picked the soggy biscuit up and popped it in his mouth. 

\--------------------------------------------

Author's note: Is 'soggy biscuit' common knowledge? If not, it's just a version of the circle jerk, a bunch of guys stand around jerking off onto a cookie or biscuit and the last one to come has to eat the soggy biscuit. Probly more than you wanted to know, right?

Spike

Author's other note: since some people asked: camera #1 is in the potted plant on Walter's balcony; camera #2 is in the car's cigarette lighter and; camera #3 is a mobile unit disguised as a goldfish that moves very, very fast. Okay?


End file.
